Dark Heart

  "I overheard your conversation.  You can return it whenever you're done with it."

  That's what the note said.  It was written in black ink on a small piece of plain, white paper pinned to the black T-shirt that I found hung over the outside knob of my apartment door.  The note wasn't signed, but from the handwriting, I could tell that it, and the shirt, were from the tenant that lived directly across the hall from me.  I knew because she had left me little such notes on a few other occasions; always on the same type of white paper, always in black ink, and they were always signed with her apartment number instead of her name.  She never gave any indication of who she was aside from being my neighbor.

  Actually, I never got any real indication that she was even a female.  That was just a guess.  I'd never seen her face to face.  I had seen her in person only a couple of times in the hallway as we were both either entering or leaving our apartments, but all I had ever seen was her back.  She wore an oversized black sweater with sleeves so long they covered her hands, baggy black pants, a pair of black pseudo-combat boots, and her hair was a hanging, jet-black mop of thin strands that covered the sides of her face almost to her shoulders.  The style of her clothes weren't overly characteristic of male or female, but they did give more of a female impression.  When I first saw her, I didn't know what to think.  I didn't know if she was dressed up for some special occasion, of if she just had some fixation about the color black.

  The first note I ever found from her was taped to my front door.  I saw it as I was coming back from work, and it told me that a package had come for me, and since I was not home, they left it with her, and that I could pick it up from her place, and the note was signed with the apartment number.  I had gone to her door to knock, but found that the door was ajar, and the box was on the floor just inside.  The apartment was completely dark despite the fact that it was the middle of the afternoon, and I could see nothing of the inside, so I could only assume that nobody was home.

  I was not as surprised as one might think to find that she had left her apartment open while she was away.  The part of town we lived in wasn't exactly threatening.  That's not to say that it was necessarily safe either.  It's just that it's more like inactive.  It didn't interest many people.  It's sort of an eerie part of town where you rarely do see other people around, but there's still evidence that they are there.  They just usually keep to themselves; neither particularly friendly, nor rude.  The apartment building with its dull, windowless hallways and dim lights, the street and the buildings that lined it, all wreaked with a dank air of indifference.

  I wasn't really an indifferent person, myself, but I still felt oddly comfortable there.  It was quiet, there was no violence or insistently cheerful and chatty people.  It was a place where you could be yourself, and as long as you didn't bother anyone, they didn't bother you.  And since I was content to follow that unwritten rule, I simply pulled my package from the doorway, closed the door, and went about my business, leaving the intriguing mystery of the apartment and its tenant unexplored.

  The conversation that I deduced she had overheard was the one I had with a friend at my front door.  He was telling me about a night club he had discovered.  It was known only by certain denizens of the night, many of which believed they were, or at least wished they were, vampires, and on the night he had planned for us to go, no one could get in unless they wore a solid black shirt of some type.  It sounded a bit unusual to me, but then when is unusual a bad thing.  I had told him that all my black shirts had a picture of some form or another, and that I'd buy a solid one the next day while I was out.  A few minutes later, we left for a bite to eat, and when I returned to my apartment, I found the T-shirt and the note.  I did find it odd that it wasn't signed with her apartment number like the previous notes, but I figured that she probably guessed I would know who it was from.

  The shirt was a size or two smaller than what I usually wore, but since I always wore shirts larger than my actual size, it wasn't too small.  I gladly wore the shirt to the club and didn't get home until three or four the next morning.  She was leaving her apartment as I was coming down the dim hall.  I stopped her as she turned away from the door and told her that I'd give her shirt back to her the next day, which was technically later that day, but because I was so physically and mentally exhausted from my time at the club, my point was that it would be sometime after I had gotten some sleep.  She said okay, and we went on our ways.  I didn't realize until later that I had finally spoken to her face to face, but because I was so tired, and I could barely keep my eyes open long enough to get into my own apartment, I didn't get a clear image of her face.  All I could remember when I woke up was that her face, which was lower than my own, seemed rather pale compared to her dark clothes, and that her voice was so soft.

  When I eventually did wake up, I had no idea what time it was until I looked at my clock.  The time was just into the evening, but it was already dark out.  I peeked through the blinds to see dark clouds going by.  They were the clouds of a storm, but only the edge, meaning we'd get only a sprinkle and miss the downpour.  Since I still had to wash the borrowed shirt before I returned it, and since I had never seen nor heard from her during the afternoons or evenings, I decided to drop her shirt, and some of my other clothes, in the wash downstairs and step out for a couple of horror videos to pass the time.  I wound up getting three videos, and between them and the wash, it wasn't until around midnight when I went to return the shirt.  I peeked through the blinds again to see if we might get a little more of the storm after all, but no such luck.  There wasn't so much as a flicker or even a sprinkle, but I couldn't see any stars so I knew the clouds were still up there.  If not for the street lights, I wouldn't have been able to see anything.

  I left and stepped across the hall to knock on her door, but once again I found it open a bit, and once again black as pitch inside.  I decided I'd just go in, leave the shirt somewhere she would easily find it, and go back to my own apartment, but when I opened the door further and stepped in, I noticed a faint glow to my left in what would be the living area of the apartment, had I been able to see the apartment.  I walked carefully toward the glow, trying to avoid any collisions with furniture.  I found it peculiar that not only did I not collide with anything, I didn't even so much as brush against anything.

  As I moved closer, and my eyes adjusted, I found the glow was that of a candle, though the actual flame was concealed, and the soft glow of that candle revealed to me the dream-like image of a female sleeping in a black lounge chair.  It was my mysterious neighbor.  She was laying upright on her side with her legs drawn close and her arms wrapped around her stomach.  Though both of her boots were off and laying on the floor in front of the chair, she wore the same sweater and pants, and had the same mop of hair.  The only things new to me were the small black-socked toes poking out from her pants legs, and that behind only a few fallen wisps of ebon, I could see her beautiful face.

  Her closed eyes were totally relaxed, and her lips offered no hint of a smile or a frown.  Her skin was smooth, with nary a blemish, yet it was so pale.  Even in the dim glow of the candle light, what little color it gave her was weak, but she was still so beautiful.  The night before, at the club, I had seen dozens of pale skinned women, and though I found most of them fascinating, and maybe even attractive, none held my gaze as did the one that lay motionless before me.

  So soft and so solemn, like a weary lost angel resting.  How long had her image held me before I dropped to my knees, the shirt dropped from my grasp, and my hand slowly floated forward to touch?  Like gossamer, her skin was soft against the back of my fingers as they glided along her jaw and over her cheeks.  I continued to her temple and started back down, but as my hand lowered, it revealed her eyes to be now open.  With a start I pulled my hand away, but she did not move.  She just stared into the tiny flame of the candle.

  The candle was thick and black, but unlike most black candles that are white with a black coat, hers was solid black.  It was probably almost a foot tall originally, but had melted down about half way leaving part of a wall of unmelted wax that had blocked the flame from my view when I first had entered.  The melted wax had risen around the wick enough to almost extinguish the flame.  I found myself watching the flame with her until I heard her speak.

  "It holds on until the very end.  It doesn't let go until there's nothing left to hold on to."  Her voice was quiet and almost monotone.

  It was obvious that she was talking about the flame, but considering the situation, it was quite an unusual thing to say.  It caught me by surprise, or at least as close to surprise as I ever get, but she didn't seem at all surprised to wake to find somebody stroking her face.  The stillness and the quiet were hers.  She had broken the silence, but she did not move anything but her lips.  I dared not rise or even turn my head, but I could speak, and I knew I had to continue with her.  Still staring into the flame and trying to match her volume, I said, "It has a strong will to live."

  "But in the end it still goes out.  It could be blown out, smothered, or engulfed by wax."

  I was never one to interrupt someone pondering life and death, so I said nothing.

  She continued.  "Sometimes I light this candle before I go to sleep, and it reminds me of the children's bedtime prayer; the part that says, 'If I should die before I wake.'  Every time I wake up, it always looks like this.  Never dead."

  "Coincidence?"

  "I don't know," she said quite seriously though her expression did not change.

  "And what would you do if you did wake up to find it had gone out?"  I had my suspicions,  and I was trying desperately to make it not sound as if I were asking if she were suicidal, but I thought I failed just as desperately.

  She either didn't notice or didn't care.  She said merely, "Nothing."

  I wasn't convinced one way or the other, but I thought one more would do the trick.  "Would you like to find it out?"

  She adjusted her position slightly and said, "It would be a nice change."

  She wasn't suicidal.  She was bored.  I had the feeling that I could drop the interrogation and start talking like a person getting to know another person.

  "I brought your shirt back."

  She turned her head to look at me, and with the stillness broken, I looked at her, picked up the shirt, and held it up into the light.  As she extended the large sleeve of her sweater toward the shirt, the oversized neck of the sweater fell away from her throat and part of her collar bone.  For an instant I stared, wondering if the rest of her flesh was as pale as her face and neck.  With one hidden hand, she pulled back the extended sleeve to reveal the thin fingers of an almost fragile looking hand.

  As she clutched the shirt and set it on her legs, I said, "Thank you."

  "You're welcome," she said with the first hint of a smile, then she wrapped her arms back around her stomach, and the little spark of a smile died, but it could still barely be seen in her eyes.

  "Are all your clothes black?"  This was genuine curiosity; I was never one for small talk.

  "Yes."  I honestly wasn't expecting that as the answer, but still I wasn't too surprised.  After I had said nothing for a few seconds, she continued.  "I like black.  It's the color of night.  It makes everything disappear.  It eliminates distractions and allows your imagination to open up."  Her eyes lowered.  "It can hide what's ugly and provide shelter."  She turned her head away from me and looked up into nothing.  She said in a softer voice, "Darkness is like being surrounded and held secure and protected.  Like a glove.  I can curl up and sleep, and dream, and nobody can touch me."

  "But I touched you."

  She closed her eyes and lowered her face as if she were going to go to sleep again, but instead of sleeping, she continued.  "I like to dream," she said, ignoring my comment.  "My dreams are always fascinating.  They're rarely ever the least bit frightening.  They're always weird and on occasion a little unpleasant, but they're usually always better than most of real life.  Not that I necessarily dislike my life.  I have my hopes and wishes, most of which have yet to come true, but I accept what I'm offered.  I know that eventually the flame will go out, so I don't let a lot of stuff get to me.  It's all the other people that do let stuff get to them.  But people aren't going to change unless they really want to.  Sure I wish I was a better person, but I don't really want to change.  I want everyone else to become better people, but how likely is that?  People spend a lifetime trying to find security.  Security comes only with death.  And darkness is the next best thing.  The soul is trapped in the body until it is set free.  But that soul was put there for a reason, and there it must stay until it is set free.  But that right is not mine so I offer it the next best thing: a sense of freedom."

  I came over just to return a borrowed shirt, and I wind up hearing her philosophy on life.  How many others, I wondered, have heard these things of her?  With how many others had she shared her secrets?  Sadly, I guessed not many, if any at all.  "Aren't you lonely?"

  "Very."  The word was like a dead weight falling bluntly on my heart.  "But not as lonely as those who marry and then divorce.  Those so desperate for love that they grab hold of the first thing that looks like love.  Then they say the love died."  Her words seemed bitter, but her tone was not.  "Love can't die.  I've been pitied before for the way I choose to live, but I pity them so much more."

  Despite what she said, I still felt a little sorry for her.  "And what about you?  Do you want love?"

  "Everyone wants love.  Even if they don't realize it."

  "Then why do you hide?"

  "I wait in comfort.  Love can't be hunted and found.  Love is the hunter."

  "But how will love find you if you remain in darkness?"

  "In the darkness I can't search, and no one can find me.  I'm safe."

  She avoided my comment once before, but I almost had her back to it.  "In the soft care of darkness where no one can see you.  Where no one can touch you," I said as if to agree with her reasoning.

  "Yes."

  "But I touched you," I said staring at her closed eyes.

  She turned her head to face me and opened her eyes, looked into my eyes and said with her face still expressionless, "Yes."  That time she did in fact surprise me.  It was as if she had been playing me like I thought that I had played her, and I was speechless.  "You saw me in the dark.  You looked passed the black.  You didn't know what was there, but you wanted to.  So many are afraid of the dark."

  "What makes you think all this?"

  "This is what I am.  Many avoid me.  Many ignore me.  Many want to hurt me.  And many just want to fuck me.  None of them know me, and neither did you.  But what did you do?  You respected me."

  I'd never before heard anyone say the word 'fuck' in such an emotionless manner.  In the current state of society, it was just something that didn't happen, but so far she seemed to not be anything like the current society.  I felt a sense of admiration for her, but I still had a point to make, so I couldn't allow myself to be sidetracked.   "But I did touch you as you slept."

  "What more would you have done?"

  "Nothing."

  "Exactly."

  She was right though.  I would have just left the shirt and gone back to my apartment, and somehow she knew.  Or did she?  She had nothing to fear of death.  How big of a risk did she feel she was taking by leaving the door open as she did?  In this neighborhood?  Almost none.  If this was to be real love, she was going to let it find her.  But what about me?  What kind of part did she think I had in her life.  "You said I came looking for you, but you also said that love could not be hunted and found."

  She sat up in the chair with her whole body facing me, her arms now around her legs, and her chin on her knees.  She looked at me closely and said, "Did you come looking for love in me?"

  I was beginning to see her reasoning more clearly.  "No."

  "What did you find?"

  For the first time, I could see the reflection of the candle light in the dark color of her eyes, and that light was getting dimmer.

  "The flame will die soon.  How do I know if this is love?  I didn't find you in the dark.  I found you in the candle light.  I was the only reason I found you laying here.  And now the flame will die."

  She let go of her legs with her right hand, found my left hand and laced our fingers.  She looked into my eyes and said softly, "Love is a bond that cannot be broken by pain of any kind.  The pain is shared and the discomfort diminished."  Then I watched as she reached for the candle with her left hand.

  She lifted the candle with such grace that not a drop of the melted wax was spilled, and the already minuscule flame was in no added threat of being engulfed.  She held the candle and our hands between us, looked at me again, and said, "Let me show you love."  Then we both watched as she slowly poured the melted wax out of the candle onto the tops of our laced fingers.

  The wax burned intensely on my skin, yet I had no desire to pull my hand away.  As the wax slowly covered our fingers and collected in the shallow valleys, and eventually began to roll down our arms before cooling, the flame gradually became brighter until almost the entire room was lit: empty except for the chair and the stand on which the candle had set.

  The entire room was painted black, even the ceiling and windows.  It was huge yet very closely surrounding.  I actually felt as if we were the only two people in a universe with the candle the only sun and her beautiful face the pale moon.  No other stars, no planets, and no people.  She held the candle upright after the last drop of wax had fallen, then she looked at me.  She then blew out the candle.

  Everything was black again.  I could see nothing.  I heard the sound of the candle being set on the stand, then I heard her voice as soft and gentle as ever, "Can you find me in the dark?"

  I closed my eyes and leaned forward, meeting her lips with my own.